Shadows of the Hundred
by lArceusl
Summary: Luck. He considers his survival up to this point nothing more than a fluke. Some cosmic flaw in the system, because he's pretty sure the universe wants him dead. Except - its aim is narrowly off. The fated arrow strikes another and another, until he's left climbing a sea of bodies just to see the sun shine.
1. Prologue

Hazy orange lamplight casts the street in dark shadows, the faces of houses ghastly like rows of carved pumpkins. The concrete underneath his shoes crunch with the shifting of his weight. He turns his head down the other side of the street; the glow of bright eyes fade in and out as dark beasts make their way. His fingers tangle together and he looks the other way – a tunnel of pale orange and white, an inky purple and black above. He shudders away the cold, exhales, then pushes off the bus stop bench.

The feeling of being watched is normal to him now. From block to block, the apprehension grows and snakes up his spine, invades his skin. It sends his synapses into rapid-fire. No one's watching him. He turns to look behind anyway, never breaking pace. No one's watching him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The unnerving quietness abated only by distant, hollow roars, yet his heart beats faster. Paranoia oozes from his forehead. His mouth twitches into a flat line.

Past dilapidation and ivy wrought fences, he comes to an abandoned part of the city. Grass grew tall and through every crack in the sidewalks. Asphalt buckled and heaved, large chunks of the road crumbled and potholes rendered it unusable. He inhales a distinct scent of earth and mildew, immediately regretting it. Suddenly his apprehension disappears, like morning fog off the window.

A four-way intersection. Traffic lights swing in a soulless wind. He plants both feet on the edge of the corner. No more glances circumspect. A deep breath and white puffs of air, he focuses on the converging streets – a spot in the middle where darkness coalesced. It was a tiny, infinitesimal spot, complete and absolute. Into a chasm, he looks. In both a moment, and too many to measure, the darkness looks back.

Death stands before him, underneath the sleeping traffic lights. Its very existence exerts a pressure, like his heart is buried in concrete and his bones are made of snow. No light escapes the immensity of its hood. Into it, the end of the universe - absolute nothing, as if the ageless cloak were the only barrier between it and everything.

Its voice comes to him bold, deeper than an eternal abyss, and softer than a whisper.

"Luca…"

His heart beat wildly, and warmth spread through him. His smile filled the empty space. Luca runs. With love, and it surges powerfully, fueling each foot-stroke toward the end. And in the end, Luca leaps, wraps his arms and legs around the mysterious figure like he'd never see it again.

It just stands there like a mannequin.

"Bryan!"

Bryan throws off his hood and immediately, the spell is broken. He's a normal person with a spectacular grin and cheeks that press against his other's.

"Ok, ok. Down boy. Jeez," Bryan pries Luca off him and sets him down firmly on asphalt crumbs. Luca goes for a kiss, but Bryan reels back, cheeky smirk cast down on him, and shakes his head profusely.

"I still taste like death and darkness."

Luca grabs him by the back of his head, threading his fingers through Bryan's hair, and kisses his cheek instead. It didn't need to be said. With just a look, hazel brown in to clear crystal blues, Bryan knew. It had been four months – and counting. The space between them is their territory, no matter the distance. Luca's just happy to have him close.

"Alright, it's back to the institute I guess…!" Luca clasps his hands together and bops around energetically. Bryan doesn't move to follow because Luca's just dancing around him and hopping up and down.

"People are going to see you and wonder what the hell you're doing." Bryan gives him a lopsided grin.

"Most normal people can't see me at all, so there." Luca fires back instantaneously, and pokes him in the rib. "I am - …"

"If you finish that sentence, I will warp you to Azkaroth and leave you there."

Luca pays him no mind. He tugs the old wool cloak, and Bryan obediently follows. Thankfully, he chooses to bump some beats and sing obnoxiously into the night – a normal sort of weird, rather than the suspicious kind.

The Georgian institute took residence in a forgotten park long over taken by tall weeds and strangling grass. The surrounding neighborhood has seen more glorious days. What few people that inhabited it only sought cover from the elements – their waking hours spent searching for another day. Often, Luca would kill time watching the townsfolk. He'd throw rocks – not at them. Just in their general direction, give them a little scare. Let down his invisibility rune, and walk around in his black jacket – hood up – and giggle when the search around frantically looking for him. He'd take a bite of his apple, because he's an asshole, then leave a bunch he stole from the cafeteria because he's not.

The area is notorious for being haunted.

"Home sweet home!" Luca yells, bowing his head for the venerable guest and throwing his hands out into empty space. Smothered benches, weeded rocky paths, and weathered down gazebos greet him.

"You can't see it, can you?" It's not so much a question as a statement of fact.

Luca holds the pose and waggles his eyebrows.

Bryan flicks him in the forehead as he heads down the cobblestone pathway to the institute. Luca follows unabashedly, though he knows as soon as he walks through those doors…

The institute spire pierces the sky. Rooms in which Shadowhunters worked lit like descended stars, growing brighter they reached the ground. Beautiful hedges and tranquil ponds and grass professionally cut panned out from the base. Around and around, a pathway webbed its way into the surrounding grounds. The difference between the two sceneries is akin to flipping channels – sudden and apparent, like they crossed dimensions to a completely different place. Paradise and hell perpetuate.

The entrance, Luca reaches it first. The rune of the Shadowhunters peers at them, a singular eye etched where the doors met. Luca takes a moment before, softly strokes the chill brass cylinder, grips it tightly in the middle. Bryan palms Luca's hips with a firm grip and nuzzles into his neck. The rune there flares to life with a wild and fiery breath. "Hey. I'm here."

Now, he didn't need to look back.

* * *

"You're back!"

Luca groans and tries to make a stealthy escape, but she's on him in an instant.

"Yeah… I'm," and he says this cautiously and drawn in on himself, "back."

She steamrolls over his apprehension. Her focus is lasered, a weapon sharpened to the finest point, and her will is the weight with which she carves out her scrutiny. It was his intention to use Bryan as bait and prance off to the breakroom, or at least the training room – after all, Bryan's the one who finished the all-important, save-the-world mission. Or something along those lines. Yet here he is, getting an earful instead of nuking a burrito and tossing chips. Bryan stands off by the command center cross-armed and glowering in their direction. Luca's not sure when he took off the cloak, or where exactly, but he's glad for it. At least he has something to look at while he's trapped here.

"Tell me, what exactly were you doing in those three weeks, Luca?"

He doesn't immediately answer. Tension in his jaw, but eyes exhausted. Bryan shakes his head ever so slightly, begging.

Shoulders shrugged, he exhales, "I dunno. Robbed a Mundie bank. Jacked off in someone's coffee?"

"This is why you're still playing look-out boy for the Clave. We can't trust you." And on one stilettoed heel, the Administrator turns. But Luca, much to everyone's chagrin, isn't quite the dog everyone thinks he is.

"I'm a damned good look out. At least you can't deny that."

Before the Administrator can retort, Luca brushes past clusters of working Shadowhunters, some of which greet him, some unfriendly in fashion, and he storms up the stairs.

Luca is a damned good scout. That's something he actually takes pride in – and what's wrong with scouting anyway? Keep the institute safe, make sure no Mundanes or Downworlders accidentally stumble upon their spire… How can no one see the importance in that? Even Mundanes appreciate their garbage man. Even Mundanes respect their janitors. Elsewise, the place gets overrun and unbecoming and sure! Anyone could do it. But none were so outfitted as he to take the mantle. He has a specialty that not even the great Bryan Wylfax could match. Something that rivals Clary Fairchild in sophistication. It makes him the perfect janitor, and a janitor is all he wanted to be.

When the Administrator comes to Bryan, she gives him a more frustrated, pleading look.

"I'm not going to make excuses for him."

"Which is why you, I trust. Now. Why are you back so soon? I'd like to hope good news comes of this, but I know we are not that lucky."

"Madame," Bryan's voice isn't nearly as deep as before. Contrary, it holds a clarity and softness that betrays the deep-set scowl he perpetually wears, "I've done everything in my power to stop this. You've got maybe two weeks to prepare. I came back only to warn you."

She sighs away a face contorted in fear. A hand over her face massages away the tension lines as she composes herself.

"Charlie, Silo. Withdraw all Shadowhunters currently on a mission. Immediately." They nod gravely and set to task hastily.

When the Administrator turns back to Bryan, he is already gone.

True to instinct, he finds Luca on the third floor propped against an ancient wooden table and staring blankly at microwave lights. Luca rubs the left side of his neck and lulls his head to the side and sighs impatiently.

"Didn't realize mommy's little failure was back so soon."

The lanky, dead-eyed Shadowhunter flops down onto the couch in the carpeted area, and stretches out. His black combat boots hang limply over the arm.

"Sup to you too, Murph."

Bryan bristles in the confines of darkness. The microwave beeps.

"If you're here, I guess that means Bryan's lurking around or you finally got bored," Murphy speaks mostly to the ceiling, and with an apathetic drawl, "of sneaking around like a cockroach."

"Mmmm. You smell that?" Luca asks with his best Mexican impression, wafting the steamy aroma off his soggy burrito, "that's the scent of cheese and refried beans and oh? What's that? Last two in the whole spire? Guess I should share, huh?"

"You can keep your twice-licked burritos, jackass," Murphy drones as Luca licks the entire length with a wide, flat tongue. He takes a huge bite of the second.

Par for the course. Murphy didn't take easy to most people. Luca, he especially hated. From the first day at the academy to the moment he flipped Luca on his ass for trying to sit on him, Murphy has wanted to paint the walls with the little fucker's intestines. In another universe, Luca believes they could be friends. There are moments where, below the veneer and hostility, Luca sees sincerity peek through.

This is not one of those moments.

Murphy has his angel blade slicing through the thinnest layer of skin. His crooked nose hovers fiercely over Luca's, eyes with all the calm of the dead. The grin Luca wears only serves to infuriate Murphy further. Luca holds his fingers out in mock surrender, lying delicately on the floor.

"What are you waiting for? Behead me."

"Look, you reject. You can loaf around like a useless piece of shit. But do it far from me."

It isn't until he hears Murphy's bootsteps down the hallway that his head thumps against the floor and he huffs.

"It's both… actually."

He wipes the blood off his flawless neck.

It's no hyperbole to say that Raven is the only Shadowhunter in the spire who enjoys her company. Besides Bryan. Neither of whom seem to be here. He can understand Raven's absence. She's off gallivanting the states looking for some do-hickey thingamathing (he wasn't paying attention), trying to save the world from "them darn Downworlders". He really wishes she were here. The beautiful bombshell brainiac. He kind of misses her. It's been… He should really visit more often. And where. The hell. Is Bryan?

"Bryan, where the hell are ya?"

He pats the couch and after a bit of searching, he finds what he was looking for.

"Please don't eat that."

Unfazed by Bryan's sudden appearance on the loveseat arm, Luca scrunches up his nose playfully and flops the burrito around.

"I'm not a Neanderthal, god. Just… cleaning. After myself. Because that's what decent people do."

Something about Luca's voice alarms him. Tenebrous, boyishly rustic, and usually filled with a hopeful naivety, now chuckles in playful despair.

"Get up."

Luca shoots up. Tosses the filthy piece in the trash. Bryan resists the urge to kiss away that distressed, caught-in-the-cookie-jar look. Instead, decides Luca needs this more than what he really wants to give.

"C'mere."

Luca wordlessly obeys.

"What's going on? Talk to me."

Bryan places a comforting, yet firm hand on Luca's shoulder. His right slides up Luca's neck and grips the side of his face. A gentle thumb brushes his cheek. Luca doesn't say anything, but then, Bryan wasn't expecting him to. Luca knows the next command. Not because this is a sacred ritual between two, but because some primal part of him knew it's something he should do. Their gazes connect. All the feelings Luca had been damming, came pouring into Bryan's heart like an icy flood. It required no words. Bryan pulls Luca into him, wraps his arm snugly around. Keeps him there safe and warm. He feels their hearts beat in perfect syncopation, their blood pulsing in unity. The serenity of the moment washes away depression and loneliness, or at least lightens those awful burdens. Bryan smiles, Luca smiles, sheepishly, innocently, and then their foreheads are touching and it's all Luca ever wanted, to be here, to admire those beautiful brown eyes and know that he's here.

"Good, yeah?"

"Yeah. Good."


	2. You Me

A Shadowhunter's favorite past-time. Mundanes have football and crochet and those little cheese snacks served on a silver platter at an upscale dinner party. He'd take art or selling cars or something more fulfilling that this. Luca's forearms rest against the railing overlooking the Pit. Everyone wears black leather and combat boots and trots around like they're members of the mafia, rather than agents of doom and destruction against the bad guys. Not Luca. He still wears his pajama pants and a light blue T-shirt that hangs loosely off his frame. The pads of his toes stick to the smooth metal surface of the bridge. Below, Bryan dances gracefully. He evades a diagonal cut from a training sword, and sidesteps a brutal vertical swing of a bo staff. Not a single strike connects meaningfully, and the whole pit of seven are giving it their all. He moves with power, like a horse, with elegance, like a crane, and with precision, like a snake. His choice of weapon doesn't surprise Luca; he's the one that gave him those gauntlets, with blades as long and sharp as they needed to be. The tattoos snaking their way up Bryan's arm, how his belly heaves with every breath, expanding the mark of the angel burned into his back, and the one particular, etched onto his right shoulder blade entrance him more than the actual feat of strength and skill on display.

The first time Luca experienced Bryan fight, it was first hand. Hand to hand. And very quick. They were sparring. A little academic test to see how everyone was coming along. Luca himself was fairly decent, having bested his longstanding rival, Clarke, after many, _many_ failures. He even gave Lexa a run for her money. But to be beaten in two moves, Luca wasn't ready for. Initially, he thought the kid's resting scowl was just a front to make himself look intimidating. Luca didn't consider himself small; he was built sturdily enough, and with what he had, he made due. He wasn't the greatest thing to ever fall from the heaven tree, but he was competent enough.

But nope. The new kid literally sent his world spinning in an instant. Something mechanical, yet irresistibly organic in the efficiency with which Luca was pinned.

Luca's weight shifts as Shadowhunters concede, one by one.

"And thus, the sheep line up for the slaughter," Murphy sneers, his boots heavy against the floor. Luca resists the urge to look him in his smug face.

"Every time. Without fail. They just love getting their asses kicked, huh?" and there is the dead fish stare. Luca's lips tighten. Doesn't turn to him.

"Can you believe it? Some people actually take this Shadowhunting thing seriously. Who would have thought."

Murphy outright laughs and it takes Luca by surprise. Much too friendly for Luca, Murphy ruffles his hair before walking to Luca's other side.

"I've always wanted to do this."

The statement confuses Luca for a moment. Then he feels himself being hoisted, by the legs, up, up, and up still.

"Murphy, what the hell! Get off me! Murphy!" Panicked, Luca grasps the rails just before he's flipped over. His wrist strain with his weight and his flailing limbs searching for purchase. The last two Shadowhunters standing become distracted by the happening, only to be systematically dismantled. The moment when everyone is down for the count, Bryan looks up to assess the situation.

Luca can sense Murphy's presence, crouched low behind him. Predatory. A cat preparing for the pounce.

"Hey, look man, I'm just following orders. Whip you into shape, is what she said. No hard feelings?" He laughs curtly, derisively.

Suddenly, the metal bar heats up. In an instant, he hears his hands searing and burning, and just like that, Luca falls. The wind whipping through his hair, the ground rushing up to greet him – he hears his heart pounding in his arms and his right above his chest, resting deep in that cavity just below his neck. He screams something at Murphy, but the thought is quickly lost as he falls right through the training mats and concrete and into darkness.

He falls and falls and falls forever. The air is tight, stale, and stagnant, and when he hits the surface, he plunges right through. All the way through, until it engulfs him entirely. His punishment. He already felt hollow, and even without the unforgiving chill against his bare skin, his body convulsed with tremors. He felt like a worm on concrete, wriggling until home surrounds him. He is a tunnel waiting for the collapse. A window pane waiting for the rock. Above, the light snuffed out. His skin burned excruciatingly and without forgiveness, over every inch. His sobs mingled with the water, and for a mere moment, he wondered if that's all it was.

He cried, without inhibition, tact, or discretion. He was stripped of nearly everything. But every time he felt the end whisper in his ear, beckoning him under, the other heartbeat kept him company. For long hours or several short minutes, it kept him as long as it took to make the choice too damn difficult.

Luca groans and gathers himself off the floor. He glares, but Murphy is already gone. Bryan is all over him, checking him over, making sure he's ok, but Luca waves him off, stretches his sores away, takes a defensive stance, and summons his angelic weapons – a pair of bladed knuckles.

Bryan sharpens his gaze and huffs, "You don't really have to do this. If you don't want…"

"It's whatever. Let's just give them a show. Show 'em how it's done." Luca smirks and nods to all the perplexed, yet interested Shadowhunters.

At that, Bryan smiles and takes up his own stance, drawing the blades of his gauntlets to full sword length. Sweat gleams down his swollen arms, swan neck, rippling chest, and the expanse of smooth muscle carved into his stomach. Strands of obsidian slither and slink just above almond eyes; his lips curve long and taper to crow's feet.

"Don't go easy for my sake," Bryan warns, right blade on target, left low and defensive.

Luca, true to temperament, makes the first move.

Luca loses in one-hundred and eight moves.

And like that first time, and like every time after Luca lost, he finds himself incredibly aroused, pinned, one hand pressing his wrists together above him, the other poised with the blade pressed non-threateningly against his neck. He drinks in Bryan's sharp features with dilated eyes and breathes like he just can't supply his body with enough oxygen. Heat pressed upon him, and body parts hovering and pressing in all the right places intoxicates him. Unlike that very first time, he doesn't try to hide it from Bryan; he can see the effect he's having on Luca plainly. He can feel it too. He leans down, drawing in steady, controlled breaths, cheekily and stealthily stroking his length agonizingly slow. Luca catches a whimper in his throat.

"Still want to give them a show?" he exhales into Luca's ear. To which Luca laughs off and pushes him away.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you lose with grace and style," Luca says, grunting and sore, while getting up. He reaches down to pull Bryan up, "Never die without a smile on your face."

Bryan gathers his belongings and leaves the Pit, Luca trotting right alongside him. The elevator doors roll closed. The stench of body odor quickly smothers the small enclosure. A smug grin paints his face.

"The Mom can't say I didn't do anything today, at least."

Bryan isn't smiling. He's gazing at him hungrily.

"These aren't monitored, right?" he gestures toward the ceiling synecdochally.

"No…why?" The words are barely out before he finds himself being consumed. Methodically. Hastily. His head thumps against the elevator wall, thought he doesn't remember taking the steps. He's wrapped up in sweat and heat and he tastes faintly of cigarettes. But Bryan's tongue massages over his own and he's breathing in and he feels both their hearts racing – he doesn't care.

The elevator slows its decent.

Bryan withdraws. He rakes over Luca's lazy, unblemished form. Sad, sleepy eyes. Wildly unkempt hair. Bare arms and bare feet. Same air, same heart, as if a kiss could press their beings together in a way that transcends the physical. Together in a way where separation seems impossible.

"You still taste like death and darkness." Luca smiles that adorable smile.

"Fuck." Bryan casts his gaze to the side.

The elevator doors open.


	3. Dying Light pt1

The sun shines through an endless sea above. Light cascades, swathing everything in vibrant colors. Tall, shifting trees line the avenue, casting deep shadows along the sidewalk. Iron fences, pikes toward heaven, and earth-colored bricks the armor of garish houses. The greenest grass undulates in a stiff wind.

"If that watch don't continue to swing," Bryan sings energetically, his whole body convulsing to the beat of the song playing intimately in his ears, "or the, fat lady fancies having a sing…" his hair can't keep up with how much bopping he's doing. He's not even watching where he's going most of the time, and his hands pat more intricate patterns on his thighs.

Luca beams the whole time. The cloak didn't come with pockets so Luca shoved Bryan's phone into his own. Bryan, as is always the case, is more stoic, more controlled than Luca. He isn't obnoxiously loud or wild and over-the-top with his dance moves, but he's just as free, and expresses himself as openly as he can while listening to his favorite songs.

They come to a mansion further down a side road. Something about the architecture makes it look like it's perpetually screaming. Mouth agape, eyes blown wide. Pine studded land encaged in a steel-piked fenced is reminiscent of a beast imprisoned. Bryan winces and pulls the earbuds out, stuffing them into Luca's jacket as they approach the gate.

Luca presses the buzzer.

Moments of nothing pass. They trade glances and shift in the silence.

Luca, once more, but more firmly this time, presses the buzzer.

Still nothing.

"Guess we're doing this old school." With a sturdy lift, Luca vaults over the gate and lands smugly on the other side. Looking down, Bryan gestures for him to take a couple of steps back, then motions for him to stop. His eyes flick back up to Luca. Into Luca's shadow, he steps. Darkness curls around his form and licks at his heels. At once, he's there, and not, like he's submerged just below the surface of reality, and Luca just happens to be looking at the right angle. He sees the ripples, wispy like smoke, as Bryan walks right through the gate. Bryan steps out of Luca's shadow; the darkness slithers underneath his cloak. If one listens closely, faint promises could be heard withering into the aether.

The trek wore on until they finally reach the front door. The silence becomes palpable and the world stagnates. They don't bother knocking. Bryan places a hand on the carved, smooth surface and Luca whips out his stele and burns two small runes, lightly over his bones. He barely presses into Bryan's skin, but the conjoined insignias scathe remorselessly nonetheless.

Bryan remains unaffected.

Luca places his hand over Bryan's, fingers between fingers.

" _Nous ouvrons_ ," Luca commands, and upon it, the runes burn even more vigilantly with holy fire. The energy transmutes into the doors, which glow faintly in obedience.

The doors open.

Bryan gently closes them after.

Not a single speck of dust gathered on any stretch of surface. Abstract vases polished to a pristine shine sat upon spotless, freshly vacuumed carpet. Memorabilia of events unexperienced, places untraveled, hung in old rigid frames on smooth, painted walls. Placed with meticulous care, an assortment of knick-knacks lined shelves and counters and decorated table tops. Vast shafts of light pour into every corner of every room.

The stair case leading to the second floor welcomes its visitors into a cold, abyssal unknown.

Luca struts in place aimlessly, gesturing likes he's struggling to remember something.

"By the order of the Clave, blah blah blah… Come out. We need to talk," he picks up a figurine, clearly more interested in it than the task at hand. He haphazardly returns it to its spot.

Nothing.

Bryan's eyes are closed and his head is tilted in concentration. His brows furrow.

"Someone's playing a harpsicord."

The question is off his tongue before he realizes what's going on.

"What?"

One by one, objects started floating. Weightless. Poised. They twist and rotate and hover, undulating in waves. Then, one by one, all the knick-knacks freeze. Every painted eye and likelihood trains on them.

Luca can hear the melody now.

"Don't let her escape," Bryan grumbles, throwing on his hood, but Luca is already on it, ignoring the hail of objects swarming toward them.

Into his own skin, Luca carves a different set of runes – two primary ones slightly augmented with smaller runes, all fused together. His eyes screw shut and he suppresses a scream. Kneeling, he slaps the ground and yells, " _Ce manoir, une prison_." The angelic flame roars across the entire floor space and scales the entire expanse of the wall. When the whole place is engulfed in heavenly fire, Luca stands up and scribbles the rune off his palms, wincing through the pain.

Luca yelps as a magic eightball whizzes by, ticked off course by Bryan's parry.

The swarm moves with sense and purpose, every projectile calculated. But the duo work efficiently in dodging and deflecting the onslaught, protecting each other. Staunch, quick, and tight, yet light on his feet, Luca slaps away objects of mass, while Bryan weaves and curves, cloak flowing as the swarm phases right through.

Then come the knives.

The harpsicord wails.

Flying blades and shards of shattered figurines follow them up the stairs and through corridors, becoming more frenzied the further they went.

"So sick of this," Luca says, breathless, then dives away from an easel. A wall hurdles toward them, but Bryan just spins and flourishes his cloak over them both, and the wall just fades right through.

"Wait…!" Luca coughs. The darkness invades his lungs and chokes his breath. It coils around his skin like a winter wind and the whispers comingle with the haunting tune vibrating through every wall.

Bryan doesn't interrupt. The sooner he's done, the sooner he can return Luca to the real world.

"Gau –" he wheezes, but Bryan is quick to understand.

Luca scribes a simple rune this time, into his weapons.

By the time they find the witch, the floor was littered with cotton balls.

They burst open the bedroom doors and huge surge of crackling magic greets them. It feels like being consumed by a fireball and struck by lightning simultaneously, and it blows them impossibly far, into empty space where the third-floor stairs should be. They should be screaming, the sense akin to the moment just before the rollercoaster takes its deepest dive, but Bryan is unafraid, and Luca can't find breath to scream. Bryan wraps him up tight, cleaving him in his embrace. And they fall – impossibly far, crashing into pointed wooden beams, splintering under their force, and skid the rest of the way down.

Their eyes ease open.

"You okay?" He grunts through the throbbing bruises all over. With a pained expression, Luca slowly nods.

"Yeah."

Luca pries himself from Bryan, stands up. When he tries to do the same, his head swims and he stumbles as stars cloud his vision.

"Hey, no. Sit. Catch up when you're good?" It's not a question, so much a firm suggestion.

Bryan just nods and shuts his eyes, a hand over his face as he lays back down.

Luca's already taking the stairs two by two and when he reaches the landing, this time he's ready. The bolt arcs toward him, crackling with electricity and dancing blue lights casting even bluer shadows. He tucks his head in a defensive boxing stance and plants his feet firmly, boots digging into the singed-black carpet. It passes over him like a warm cloud, but smashes into the far wall like a flaming wrecking ball.

"Honestly…"

Through the threshold, he crosses. A beautiful old woman stand there in the middle of what was once an exquisite display of decorum. Her face is wrinkled with age and savagery. Blood-red waterfalls cascade down her slumped shoulders, thin and wispy. Her eyes glint with something primal. Her hands nurse magic to life, indoctrinating it with enmity and loathing for all existence.

"Wa – "

She sends that energy careening toward Luca.

Again, it passes over harmlessly.

"Your house doesn't deserve this kind of abuse," he says wryly, eyebrows arched and thumb pointing.

"Get out of my home!" she screams desperately and attempts to crush him with the force of her will.

"Look, Lady," he gasps, falling to his knees and clawing at his throat. They hear him a split second before they see him, and Luca has to quickly bar Bryan, with an outstretched arm, from assassinating the woman. Luca feels him advance anyway, but his fingers dig into Bryan's thigh authoritatively.

Suddenly, she cries out in agony, clutching her head and reeling back. Luca shoots up and tackles her to the floor, much like a professional footballer taking down a toddler. They're a mess of scrambling limbs, but Luca finally subdues her.

"Are you going to behave now? Can we have a civil discussion, or are you going to keep throwing a tantrum?" Luca heaves. She completely ignores him.

"How _dare_ you break into my home and abuse me like this? Is this how Shadowhunters act? Turning Downworlders own home into a prison?"

A slight shrug and arms falling limp to his side, Bryan shakes his head, "You had a chance to comply. And you didn't."

"Use of deadly force is authorized," Luca sing-songs on reflex, immediately regretting the decision when Bryan shoots him a certain look.

"Order your Mundane monkey off me," she spits bitterly.

"Mundane…?" Luca looks at her funny, but then, "Oh! You can't – boop," he flicks her nose, and suddenly the black tattoo covering his neck appears, in perfect stroke order. An impossibly small rune was emblazoned on his forefinger. Yet another outlines the soft curve of his cheek and dips just below his rounded jawline.

"Why would you be – "

"We came to ask _you_ the questions, so… civil discussion, or interrogation?"

"I'd chose civil discussion," he says sharply, yet softly.

She chooses civil discussion.

Downstairs at a naked dining table, they sit among a mess of clouds and fire. Luca tries to be as impassive as Bryan about the mesmerized shock displayed on the woman's face and in every flit of the eye. He can't contain that smug smile.

"What we are to discuss here is strictly confidential," his tone soft, but brows a rigid line across his stony face.

"We're just going to skip the whole oath thing," he smirks, crossing his arms on the table.

"You talk, you die."

A fear and unease creeps into her tight wrinkles. She nods in grave understanding. Bryan continues.

"The shortest story: we're facing a crisis indiscriminate of Shadowhunters, Downworlders, or Mundanes alike. We'll all be erased if we don't co-operate."

"The world is always on the edge of destruction, give me a better excuse for," her outburst is cut short by Luca tapping the table and shaking his head with that plastered smirk. He puts a teasing index finger over his mouth in warning.

"You have an artifact stolen from the Conclave. We need it back."

All at once, the old woman reveals her frailty as her mind reels through the possibilities. Her eyes glass over and her lips give the slightest tremble. The table somehow becomes the most interesting thing in the room, the thought a single card being flipped over and over. Obsessively.

"No," she brokenly sobs, "we have an arrangement."

"Had. This takes priority."

She's breaking down right there in front of them, and Bryan's panic only makes him more guarded.

"Just hand it to the institute in two days, alright?" and Bryan, courteous and commanding as ever, warns, "Don't make me waste sympathy on a dead woman."

She nods slightly in understanding.

"You know about the light in that stone," Bryan's intense gaze shift its exact location, for a moment only, his nails subtly eating into the wood, "I'm no longer enough, I can't do this by myself anymore."

Luca no longer smiles. His heartbeat echoes the crushing sense of impotence.

"The Clave is appointing you Regent Alpharetta. Use everything in your power to protect the Mundanes from them, Abigail.


	4. Dying Light pt2

She struts down the city streets with poise and confidence. Her heels strike the pavement with purpose and perfect metronomity. Her presence is a paintbrush, and every stroke leaves a trail of strawberry blonde streaks. Delicately from the arm of her pinstripe sweater, her turquoise spaghetti-strap purse hangs. A polished finger brushes back stray strands, tucks them neatly behind her ear.

She glances quickly both ways before ducking behind a side road. Her pace quickens; she mumbles a few words, softer than the human ear. Then, against coarse and grime-coated brick, she trails a finger, the moment she rounds the corner.

She waits.

And around the corner, they come, dressed like night bouncers and tailgaters. She's frozen still, a pensive marble statue, and they mind her as pedestrians would along a well-traveled road. But a road, this is not. This trail has yet to be trampled, so they take it slow, nose to the air, and leaving no crevice unchecked. When the last of them pass, she whirls on a single stiletto and strides the way she came. Her eyes are stuck in a permanent roll, and she huffs a curt sigh.

Ordinarily, she would indulge in the game of cat-and-mouse. It was in her nature to tempt the inferno, only to tame its fiery dance. But this cold and cloudless day, something far more sinister plays. An old flame burns only to consume. This plot tastes of something far more nefarious. Something intentional. It left an ink stain amid all the strawberries.

She must get home.

The wolves aren't the smartest bunch, but unfortunately, there's always _him_ making the wisest decisions. She spies him waiting by the car, leant against like a very formidable mop. He's not looking around. He isn't expecting her to show.

She doesn't bother. The tires are probably slashed anyway. Or, knowing him, something more critical. Like the breaks.

Downtown is rife with pedestrians. Mundanes mostly. Mundanes who go about their unextraordinary lives doing unextraordinary things – valeting for busy hotel services, serving exquisite food for the bourgeois, commuting from state office to state office. Or, driving the Uber that takes them there.

Occam's Razor.

Why look for a safe place to portal, when she can just...

"Lydia!"

"What's up Lyds?"

"What the hell is Stiles doing here?" her voice takes an accusatory tone as she takes a seat in the back.

Kira, who had been dancing in the driver's seat, meets her with wide, doe eyes.

"Please don't report me! He begged to come."

She catches him stealing glances and the smile he had slowly melts away. Lydia waves away the major infraction; it's not the first time they crashed a ride.

"Whatever. Just - go."

Her anxiety motivates her into a cold silence. Not of wolves pursuant, or any creature that crawls by day or takes flight in the night, she holds no fear. The Down world is her chess board, and she's the grandmaster. No, Lydia is afraid of only two things in this world. As her ride coasts the current of the city veins, her chest tightens and her breath finds escape uneasy.

The two upfront carry on a lighthearted conversation.

The early morning brightens into midday.

The car rolls to a wary end, a few blocks from the institute headquarters.

"Uh… Are you sure this is where you want to be dropped off?" Stiles scratches his temple and squints an eye.

"I mean. I can just drive you home, off the clock," Kira adds as she takes in the disembodied neighborhood.

Her words fade into nothing. Expression lost, Lydia peers out at things unseen. She paces the pavement deliberately. Shadows obscure her periphery, yet flee upon focus.

"Lydia?"

"Home isn't safe, can't go home."

"What? Your place is like a fortress. Bel couldn't…"

She turns to him, fierce with determination, "That little bastard broke through my wards." And with a snap, she opens a portal behind her, shimmering silver like water's edge, "Don't follow me."

She steps through, leaving no room for protest.

Stiles looks at Kira. Kira looks at Stiles.

Neither a question, nor statement, it was a confirmation of two converging thoughts.

"We're going after her, right? Yeah, ok."

Bellamy didn't slash the tires or cut the breaks. It's a pretty little buggy, cute in its compactness. Bright yellow and printed daisies. A classic. Something so intrinsically and inextricably Lydia – he could never dismantle it. Not in good conscience. When his very presence is enough to deter her from coming out this way, what would be the point? He's done enough in the name of revenge and retribution. Justice. He'd wait here, until they've scoured every inch of every corner of every street and every building. And when they come up empty, because no one sees the moves Bellamy sees, he'll dig his set of keys out of his pockets and drive it someplace safe.

She'll come to him then, where the lines of politics obfuscate, when the definition of them isn't confined to ridiculous binaries.

He's leaning against the buggy with crossed arms, and stares vacantly at a dynamic equilibrium of pedestrians. They're all blurs in his memory, ebbing through his mind like the capricious tides. Then, something alerts him. He looks around – for the squirrel – but whatever it was, he couldn't locate. No evidence of malintent, yet the bells never stop ringing. Each time he thinks he's got it, the danger escapes him. As if the mere observation of it forced the threat into inexistence.

The beating of a heart floods his ears, faint at first, until it rises into a cacophonic frenzy.

It's not his own.

He turns to face the buggy.

Gold infinites locks with his brown eyes. A lovely rose-red and fluffy pink light synchronizes with the throb of his heart. Clouds of darkest night suffocate.

It reaches out to him, through steel doors and pierces his chest.

The roiling, pulsating cloud twists around his beating heart and he screams. Viscerally.

Lydia looks around, confused at where her portal ended up. Her surrounds are familiar; it's where she spent her entire life. She was supposed to be _inside_ the estate, not on the front patio deck. _Inside_. In. The usual ragamuffin around these parts has no chance of breaking the wards around the gate, let alone the cocktail of spells surrounding the manor. She knows of only six people who have the capacity do this, but only one who uses archaic and illegal runes to subvert the opposition. Or flee his own problems.

Lydia is a spaghetti maker, her magic the spaghetti, but nothing she concocts even dents the heavenly fire engulfing her home.

She resorts to furiously pounding on the door.

"Luca!"

She loves him, but his flagrant disregard for –

"LUCA!" she yells, feeling the anger stew.

"Oh, fuck me."

Luca's head thumps against the table top.

Bryan narrows his eyes, and they flit from Abigail to Luca, "...What?"

Almost like she couldn't believe it, Abigail slowly stands, then she's darting toward the door.

"You know, you'd think I'd have connected the dots by now?" he shoots up, and paces the floor frantically. His fingers comb through his hair and twine at the back; he tries to suffocate himself with his arms.

"What did you do?" his voice is clear and powerful, and the waves shocking through him exacerbates his guilt.

"Oh, I'm so glad I didn't let you kill her."

A look of confound contorts Bryan's face.

"Luca."

"You remember Lydia. Right?"

"Luke…" his eyes roll into the back of his skull as he pinches the bridge of his nose, elbows falling on the table.

"She's the one who attacked _us_!"

"She's not gonna give a fuck about that?"

The door beats furiously. Abigail tries abet the storm, but the flurry of questions she cannot answer only serves to infuriate further. Her own magic couldn't break through. With elderly poise and authority, she strides over and interrupts the argument occurring in her living room.

"You need to let my granddaughter in _now_."

Luca gives her his attention for all of half a second.

"Ok, ok. I break the seal. You whisk me away. Deal?"

"You can't keep screwing over your friends," as Bryan says this, Luca's face falls and the back of his throat starts burning as he tries to hold himself together, "Face it. I'll be here."

Luca sniffs, wipes his nose, and rubs his face, and sighs, "Fuck."

"Be right there!" he calls loudly so Lydia can hear. Forces a wry smile across his cheek.

He kneels in the spot where he initially placed the rune, the hearth that stokes the fire. He glances where he scribbled it out of the soft flesh of his palm. It reminds him, deeply, of the darkest day in his life. He didn't heal quite as quick then as he does now. He's lucky. What he could have lost that day, may have been lost forever.

His hand trembles, but grounds it in carpet threads and cotton balls.

He waves his stele over the mark in intense concentration. The fire recedes, the sea to Charybdis' jaws. It leaves a neat, blackened spot, stark against flawless white.

Every part of him begged to be shrunk into an infinitesimal point.

The door slams open.

Luca looks up, those green-hazel eyes full of disbelief – wide with shock.

"What the hell did you do."

He finally takes in his surroundings, and tries to suppress a smile. He fails.

"It looks like most of your decorations have been cottonized. Funny story – "

The temperature plummets, and suddenly he's dodging icicle spears. Narrowly – keeping a tight center and only moving _just_ enough to evade them. That is, until he decides to punch one with his bladed knuckles, sending a lump of ice hurtling into his side before finally transforming into cotton and falling harmlessly on the floor.

He grunts and tries to wince away the pain.

"Ok, ok! No bullshit, just please. Stop."

"What. Happened."

"Picture this," he motions to the state of things, "except with more flying objects and your grandma trying to kill us!" he lets the anger well and bubble over, feels pinpricks of heat bite his skin, "We came to talk, and she met us with force," his nose is curled into a snarl as he takes mediated advances on the youthful witch, and throws nasty glares in Abigail's direction, "So you know what we did? We kicked grandma's ass and set her down to talk."

In a fit of frozen anger, she wraps his head in ice magic. With a twirl of her fingers, she drags him closer, right before her, and forces him to his knees.

"Next time you need to interview my family? Go through me first."

"Whatever! She. Attacked. Us!" he grunts, fighting through the stabbing pain, "Don't make me break out of this. It'll hurt you more than me. And I like you."

And like that, she relents. Luca squeezes his temples and nurses his skull as Lydia steps past him. Luca finds Bryan's gaze before continuing.

"Besides, it's not like you invite me over for Boggle or Life. Didn't know _this_ was your grandma," again, he gestures to Abigail, "and I didn't know this was your house."

"You're not a good house guest."

Bryan snorts.

"What, exactly, was worth turning my place into the local fleece farm?"

"That's classified," he turns to Bryan for confirmation, "Yup. Very classified information."

"Clave orders," Bryan affirms.

Lydia sighs, "Which means – "

"I'm gonna tell you anyway," ,"He's going to tell you anyway," they say simultaneously.

"So get this - "

"They've appointed me Regent of Alpharetta," Abigail cuts in, her patience with Luca wearing thin, "Something significant is sending the underworld into a tailspin. I'm afraid that's all we can tell you."

" _We."_ Luca mocks silently, slapping Bryan's shoulder.

"What? Between the demonic energy and lack of Shadowhunter marks, I thought my life was in danger." She shrugs, finally defending herself.

"Anyway," Luca claps his hands together with finality, "Our business here is done, actually. Bry. If you would do the honors?"

Lydia's arms cross, her lips pressed to a flat line.

"We'll catch up sometime! Promise."

Bryan firmly clutches Luca's shoulder, massaging it with strong hands. Tendrils of darkness coil all around them, nudging their legs and licking their skin. He passes an apologetic look to the ladies, but upon meeting Abigail's, his expression steels.

"Our agreement still stands."

Darkness swallows them up.


End file.
